


You've No Clue How to Sew (But I Do)

by a_static_world



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Scenting, and jaskier is creative, geralt of rivia has a lot of hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24139027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: Here’s the thing: Geralt, through whatever mutagens had been pumped into him (a thought that still made Jaskier’s blood boil, thank you very much) sheds like a fucking housecat.or,Geralt loses a lot of hair quite regularly, and Jaskier is a crafty bitch.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 43
Kudos: 506
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	You've No Clue How to Sew (But I Do)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anoddconstellationofthoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts/gifts).



> This all came about from a 1 AM text from my dear [oddconstellation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts), angry with every fic author calling Geralt's hair silky. From that came this- enjoy!

Here’s the thing: Geralt, through whatever mutagens had been pumped into him (a thought that still made Jaskier’s blood boil, thank you very much)  _ sheds like a fucking housecat _ . Shocking handfuls came away whenever the bard combed out the witcher’s hair, tangled his hands in the pale locks only to come away with a sweater. It was soft, not silky; more like lamb’s wool than anything, really.

It scared Jaskier; the first time he’d washed Geralt’s hair and pulled away with a fistful of witcher-hair he’d been sure he would be skinned, a panicked apology bubbling up to his lips before he realized Geralt was  _ laughing _ at him. 

He discarded the hair, at first, apologizing to whatever innkeep caught him carrying out handfuls and handfuls of the damned stuff, or scattering it to the birds for nesting material. And gods  _ damn _ Geralt for being able to lose a head’s worth of hair at every bath and  _ still  _ not fall prey to baldness. The man deserved some reparation for what had been done to him, Jaskier supposed, and beautiful, endless hair, while not all he deserved, was  _ something.  _

Eventually, though, as Jaskier became less and less inclined to part from Geralt’s side and his clothes became more and more threadbare, all that perfectly useful hair seemed a waste. He experimented, washing and dyeing the hair different colors, poking at it with a bit of sharp bone to get it into a felt-ish fabric. 

Geralt merely raised an eyebrow at the bard’s bloody hands, and insisted on bandaging them himself. Which caused no small amount of softness in Jaskier, because the witcher had bandaged them in such a way that he could still play the lute without problem. Whoever said that witchers weren’t considerate lovers, well. They were  _ incredibly  _ wrong. 

Once Jaskier reached a level of proficiency that allowed him to make flowers and leaves and pretty things as opposed to sad, oblong, lumpy squares, he began to patch his clothes. Buttercups and thistles bloomed across the holes in his doublets, neatly sewn by hands that preferred a lute to a sword. His pants got simple circle patches in  _ nearly  _ the same color (hey, it wasn’t exactly like he had access to proper dyes). He practiced on clothes too far gone to save, until his old undershirt looked more like a meadow than cotton and he had to steal one of Geralt’s. 

He began to find any excuse to play with Geralt’s hair, combing and brushing and braiding until the witcher purred and Jaskier had a fresh supply of hair to work with. Geralt sometimes looked at him oddly when he wore a patched garment, but Jaskier chalked it up to the flowers and went on his merry way. 

There was something comforting about it, really. Having a small piece of Geralt on him made him feel safer when he wasn’t there, as if holding some part of the witcher close to his heart meant he had to come back. It was foolish, and soft as Geralt was on the inside he’d certainly laugh if he ever found out. 

Soon he didn’t have a single piece of clothing (save some undergarments- hair is terribly itchy, you know) without some sort of Geralt-hair accessory. And the birds across the continent were probably thanking him- there’s only so many nests one can make, after all. He’d even felted the smallest vine, thorny and twisting, to attach to Roach’s reins. He hadn’t, not yet, but the vine lay at the bottom of his pack should he ever decide he wanted to use it. 

And when someone laughed at them he didn’t care, focused only on the feeling of Geralt’s fingers down his back, proud that this was the man he chose. Proud enough to felt a white wolf over his heart; the doublet didn’t need patching, not yet, but he couldn’t resist the pure drama of attaching Geralt’s symbol made of his  _ fucking hair _ to his clothing. It wasn’t fair, really, how much he loved the man but, well, he did. Plain and simple. 

They got separated, once, for a few days. Geralt, the dumb fucking bastard, had decided to take a contract that required him to fight something “far too dangerous for you, Jaskier.” Ridiculous, in his humble gods damned opinion, but he woke to a scrawled note and an innkeeper who  _ refused  _ to tell him where Geralt had gone. Typical bullheaded witcher bull _shit_. 

So, naturally, he sat in their room and sulked, composing and trying far too hard to rhyme  _ witcher _ with  _ bitcher _ . He’d make it work. He had two whole days, maybe three if the bastard somehow decided to get himself maimed. 

His anger, of course, melted as soon as their door flung open to reveal not the lovely innkeeper who brought him his meals, but instead his disgusting, dirty, bloody boyfriend, who crossed the room and buried his disgusting, dirty, bloody nose into Jaskier’s hair. And if Jaskier cried, just a little, and if Geralt let out a sniff that sounded rather congested, well. It’s not like anyone had to know. That was their business, thank you very much. 

“You- how do you still smell like me?”

“What?”

“Three days should be enough for you to just...smell like you. You still smell like  _ me _ .”

Oh, so maybe the hair-felt  _ had _ retained some Geralt. Shite. Jaskier nervously ran a fingertip over the buttercups on his shoulder. 

“Well, darling, sewing materials are scarce-“

“ _ Is that my hair _ .”

Jaskier had just barely opened his mouth to sputter a response before it was wholly captured by Geralt’s (still disgusting, dirty, and bloody, but marginally less so), and he stiffened in shock for only a moment before he melted, body going lax and pressing into the witcher. Fuck, he’d missed him. But he really did fucking smell. So, reluctantly, Jaskier pulled away, bumping his nose gently against Geralt’s to show he wasn’t angry. 

“Come on. Bath with you, before you suffocate me entirely.” 

He managed, somehow, to manhandle 200 pounds of rapidly tiring potion-comedown witcher into a tub of water quickly warmed by a murmured  _ igni _ . He took up a washcloth himself, content in the fact that Geralt only relaxed like this for him. Jaskier swiped the cloth over Geralt’s shoulders, across his eyes, down the column of his neck, chuckling as the man groaned and let his head thump down to the edge of the tub. 

“Like it when you smell like me.”

“Rather proprietary, darling. Still, you’re quite literally woven into my life, so.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier grinned, dropping a kiss on the witcher’s forehead and tapping his arm to get him out of the bath. 

“Up you get. It’s time for bed, love of mine.”

_ This  _ was Jaskier’s favorite part, truly. When he and his witcher could just hide under the covers, content not to know what was out there, tangled together and matching breaths. The sex was pretty fucking good, too, but nothing beat just...falling asleep next to Geralt, and knowing he’d be there in the morning. 

“I made something for Roach, if you’d let me-”

“Anything.”

Oh, he adored him. So unreasonably much.

**Author's Note:**

> as mentioned, oddconstellation is my idea generator and general confusing-gif-user (love you)  
> i tried so hard to make this cracky and funny but it all got away from me rather fast  
> i've been listening to Exclusively the amazing devil for the past three days, and I've rather cleverly woven some lines into this- see if you can find them!!  
> as always, i'm available to scream at on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/) should you wish to drop a prompt idea or merely just tell me how your day is going <3


End file.
